


Gethsemane

by Bamboozlepig



Category: Adam-12
Genre: Adult Situations, Gen, Language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2017-11-07 04:59:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/427135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bamboozlepig/pseuds/Bamboozlepig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look into Jim Reed's first night as a police officer and Pete Malloy's last night as a police officer, detailing the events from the premiere episode of "Adam-12" called "The Impossible Mission." **UPDATE 6/27/16: Jim's section has been revised and reposted**</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Badge: Pete

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Adam-12 and the episode I am using, "The Impossible Mission", is the property of MarkVII/Universal, no copyright infringement intended. All dialogue taken from the episode will be set in bold print in order to set it apart from my own dialogue. The picture used for the cover comes from the cover of the season 5 dvd set of the series. ALL ORIGINAL CONTENT OF THIS STORY, INCLUDING MY OWN CREATED FANON, CHARACTERS OR OTHER SPECIFIC DETAILS UNIQUE TO MY WORK IS THE SOLE PROPERTY OF BAMBOOZLEPIG AND MAY NOT BE USED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION.*This story may contain graphic language or depictions of potentially upsetting situations, therefore reader discretion is advised.* For plot purposes, intentional liberties may be taken with the depiction of any real life protocols and creative license taken with the portrayals of canon elements, including characters.
> 
> This story is intended to capture the dual points-of-view from both Pete and Jim as they experience Jim's first shift as a police officer and Pete's final shift as a police officer in the premiere episode of "Adam-12" called "The Impossible Mission", taking the reader into each man's mind in the hours before, during, and after that shift and episode events. I had pulled Jim's first chapter because I wasn't happy with it and planned a major revision on it, but after rereading it this past week, I found that it needed only some minor tweaks done to it to bring it into line with the overall plan for this story. I also decided not to make any major changes to Pete's section, save for maybe tweaking a bit of wording here or there. In the original incarnation, I'd had Jim's section posted first, followed by Pete's, but for now I'm going to have Jim's section be the second chapter, although down the road I might swap the chapters back to their original spots in the story. And since the muse is fickle and tends to wander off whenever he damn well pleases, I have no guarantee for fast updates to this fic. Feedback is always welcomed and thank you for reading!

**1968**

"I AM making the right decision, aren't I?" I ask the man, glancing down at the leather-foldered badge I hold in my hands before raising my eyes back to his, searching his gaze for the untold assurance that I am indeed making the right decision. He stares back at me with a set of tired green eyes that are ringed with dark circles, mouth drawn down in a thin-lipped frown, brows knitted together in permanently etched concern. Studying me carefully, he tries a wolfish smile, but the movement clearly feels foreign to him, as if he's forgotten how to smile, so he drops the grin, his mouth settling back into a downward twist that feels much more at home on his face. With a sigh, I slip the leather folder into the pocket of my shirt and turn away from the mirror then, shrugging…if Pete Malloy ain't meant to smile anymore, he ain't meant to smile anymore, I guess. And besides, I can't really imagine wanting to do so anyway…

At least not in THIS lifetime any more.

But it will play hell on my romantic life, I'm sure, since my smile was part of the overall patented Pete Malloy seductive look, my charm guaranteed to make any female, young or old, swoon into my arms with just a sultry smirk and a smoldering gaze. "My romantic life, that's fucking rich," I snort dryly to myself as I consider how Donna, my latest flame, is no longer speaking to me now, unable to understand me and what I needed over these last two weeks. Hell, not even  _I_ understood me and what I needed, except I knew I didn't crave the closeness she thought I should want, trying to share with me in my sorrow, offering me comfort and solace in not only her expressions of sympathy, but also through her body and the physical release that sex gave me. Not that I didn't gladly avail myself of THAT offering…her words of sympathy were useless utterances that fell on my deaf ears, but her body…her body I took in angry passion, using her until the two of us were physically spent, wrung out and panting, but afterwards I'd be unable to stomach her closeness and clinginess and sympathetic words any further and I'd force her to leave my apartment so that I could be alone…

Alone to think, alone to remember, alone to drink myself into oblivion, the mind-numbing escape offered to me by the judicious applications of Jack Daniels that I poured down me, dulling me, making me feel no pain, for I'd already felt an entire fucking lifetime of it in that goddamned dirty little alleyway fourteen days ago and I didn't need to feel it anymore. And while the booze stopped me from feeling anything, it didn't let me forget, since every night I'd fall into bed, drunk off my ass, passing out into blackness that would soon become nightmares; horrific dreams that always ended up with someone I knew lying dead in that alleyway with the icy rain slashing down in their death-slackened face, washing their lifeblood away as it seeped out of their body through the hole blown in their chest. Sometimes it was my partner lying there, sometimes it was Val or Mac, sometimes it was that kid from the academy track, the same one who was so anxious to get assigned to Central Division, and sometimes…

_Sometimes it was me._

And too goddamned bad it really WASN'T, either. Woulda saved myself a lot of grief, a lot of anguish, a lot of…a lot of guilt. Guilt's become my brother, my comrade in arms, my crown of thorns, my hair shirt, my cross to carry…whatever pretty little term you want to call the simple fact that I fucked up and a good man is dead because of me. After all, it was my goddamned fault that Howie Parker was murdered, and no one could tell me any different. I was his Training Officer and had been for the eleven months he'd been on the force, charged with the task of teaching him the ropes of the job and keeping him safe from harm. I'd done fine at it,  _just fine_ , and the kid was nearing the end of his year-long probationary period under my tutelage, at least until that awful night two weeks ago in that squalid little alleyway behind a pharmaceutical warehouse. Howie Parker met his death at the hands of a two-bit burglar with a yen for stolen drugs, and I met my own personal hell when I watched him die in front of me, brutally gunned down in a blink of an eye, knowing that I failed…I  _fucking_ FAILED that kid in keeping him safe from harm as his T.O. Because of me, his wife no longer has her husband, his baby daughter no longer has her daddy, and him…he no longer has his life. I cost them EVERYTHING, and despite the fact that the investigation into the case clearly showed no wrongdoing on my part, that the whole incident was nothing more than a goddamned senseless tragedy, merely an accident of us being in the wrong place at the wrong time, I know…I  _know…_

 _I just as much killed him as the bastard who pulled the trigger_.

"Christ, I need a fucking cigarette," I mutter to myself, turning away from my dresser and crossing the bedroom floor, sitting down on the edge of the bed as I grab up the pack of Marlboros from my nightstand. I tap one out into my fingers, placing it between my lips as I tuck the pack into the pocket of my shirt, in front of the leather folder already there, Picking up the gold Zippo lighter atop the nightstand, I open the lid with a practiced flick of my wrist, my thumb rasping across the flywheel and bringing forth the flame that lights the cigarette for me. Drawing the smoke deep into my lungs, I study the elegantly engraved initials on the lighter,  _P.J.M.,_  for a moment before slipping the lighter into the same pocket as the cigarettes. The Zippo was a gift from someone I once loved, and while that someone is no longer in my life, the lighter has remained a talisman of sorts, a good luck charm that I've always carried with me, a simple reminder of…well…how  _odd_  life can work out sometimes. And a lot of good it did me two weeks ago, when my luck ran out on me like a cheap Tijuana hooker and the five hundred bucks from a sleeping john's wallet.

I grimace… _fuck, I've been reading too much Raymond Chandler again_ …although Chandler is the only thing I've been interested in reading right now, the sharp-edged cynicism and world-weariness of Philip Marlowe resounding deeply within me, resonating to the very core of my soul. I know now of the lonely world in which he inhabits, having entered that world myself. Fiction imitates life, for Marlowe's a ghostly shadow of me, and I am nothing more than a ghostly shadow of myself, and that notion actually makes sense to me in my tired brain. Sighing, I grab up the blue glass ashtray from the nightstand and flop back onto the bed, staring up at the waterstained ceiling, the ashtray resting on my stomach, the smoke from my cigarette drifting aimlessly heavenward. Tapping ash from the end of the cigarette off into the ashtray, I gaze at the hot embered end of it, the ashes a pretty apt metaphor for my life right now, considering how I've vanquished everything into an inferno of flames, raging and howling and weeping at the fickleness of Fate until I could rage and howl and weep no more, then I came to a decision about Fate that's supposed to bring me peace, but instead it's made me feel…

_Hollow and empty and ever-so-slightly stunned at my self-betrayal._

I never imagined I'd do this to myself, betray myself in such a fashion, yet here I am, doing just that, stabbing myself in my back with the double-edged blade of guilt and sorrow. And it's a helluva lot easier than I ever thought it would be, for instead of dragging myself kicking and screaming down that path of no return, fighting my will, fighting my heart, fighting my soul, I found myself accepting my decision with too much ease and absolutely no hesitation and very little remorse. But, I suppose it's easy to do when your heart isn't in it anymore. It's easier to just say fuck it and throw in the towel, I fought the good fight and now I'm quitting because there's nothing left here for me but ashes and memories and goddamned aching bitterness that eats acidly at my soul. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride, and I'd ride back to that night, ten minutes before I drove down that alleyway, warning myself of the Fate about to be set into motion, then Parker wouldn't have gotten killed and I wouldn't be feeling so…so…

 _Lost_.

I wouldn't be feeling so goddamned  _lost._  The booze may have temporarily stopped the feelings inside of me, but sober now, they've returned with a vengeance, the screeching harpy triplets of anger and disappointment and sorrow battling for dominance over the lone soldier of guilt…I think they call it 'survivor's guilt'. Why, I don't know, because to survive means to live, and if this is what living will be like for me from here on out, I'm not sure how much more of it I can take.

I stub out the cigarette, rubbing a hand across my forehead, trying to scour away the tension that still prickles there. I'm supposed to be all relaxed and refreshed, having come back from a week's vacation just yesterday, taking Mac and Val's advice and getting the hell outta Dodge, putting as many miles between myself and L.A. as I could stand, fleeing northward to Lake Isabella. And damn it, I shoulda kept going, for each mile that ticked off on the Mustang's odometer was one less mile that bound me to the horror and the sorrow and the absolute hell that had been my life for the last two weeks.

_Better yet, I never shoulda come back._

Forgetting it all is one thing, but escaping it completely is another. Of course, there's no more permanent escape you can avail yourself of, other than Death, and I haven't gotten that far…

Yet _._

I've never been one to consider eating my piece in order to get away from it all, for suicide has never appealed to me, no matter what hell I've endured in my life, but that was then and this is now, and now…now is my own personal Gethsemane, and I can't help but wonder if Jesus Christ ever considered taking his own life when He learned what God had in store for him, but then…then I remember I don't believe in that shit anymore. The religion that was pounded into me by my mother and the Catholic nuns at school fell easily away from me when I was eight and my dad returned home from the war, changed from a kind and loving man into an abusive, screaming monster that I didn't recognize but quickly learned to hate. It was easy, oh so easy, to pretend I followed the teachings of my faith, for there must always be a Judas goat among the flock of lambs, yet despite my disavowal of the tenets of my religion, I still held fast to some of them. Yeah, I quit worshipping God in church, but I knew He was still up there in Heaven, and I tried to thank Him once in a while to let Him know I appreciated what He did for me. I never doubted His presence, never doubted that He was there, never doubted His reasoning behind things that happened, because I believed…I BELIEVED in the bastard. But then on that night two weeks ago, God decided to take a coffee break, allowing THIS to happen to Howie Parker and…and allowing THIS to happen to ME, the man who never questioned His existence before now, believing like all the other damned sheep that God is great and that He always has His reasons for whatever happens in life.

Now I believe in  _nothing_. God can go fuck Himself, as far as I'm concerned. He ceased existing for me when I looked at Howie Parker as he lay crumpled in that alleyway and found nothing but Death staring back at me from those cold, lifeless eyes, the blue irises already clouding over. Howie was gone the minute those bullets ripped into him, his soul fleeing his body before it even hit the ground. And I am left to try to deal with it all, and I don't really know how to, because nothing in my training, nothing in the little blue rule book,  _nothing_  in my life prior to this has prepared me for watching my partner die right in front of me. He was there one minute, laughing and joking with me in the squad car, then he was gone, and I never got to tell him he WAS a good cop, and that I was proud of him, that I was proud to have him as a friend. Shit, I never even got to say…to say...

_I never really got to say 'I'm sorry' for getting him killed, and that's what hurts the worst._

The words of apology I uttered at his gravesite last night were nothing but cold, empty comfort.

I find myself longing for the crisp burning taste of whiskey and what escape it offers me, but I remember that I dumped the booze down the drain before I left for Lake Isabella, which means I'll have to stop by the liquor store on my way home from work to get some more because telling myself I no longer needed it was just a whispering lie, a falsity uttered in the heat of the moment, a promise I know I cannot keep, not now, not ever. After all, I am, as it turns out, much my father's son, seeking the empty solace offered by liquor, fulfilling a genetic prophecy that was bequeathed to me by a man with as much anger and bitterness and disappointment as my own, having suffered through his own personal hell during World War II, blotting out the memories of what he saw over there with judicious applications of booze, just as I have tried to do. I'd always prided myself on NOT being like dear old dad, keeping a close eye on my liquor consumption, very aware of my limits, not only due to my job as a cop, but also due to the fact that I deal with the often tragic effects alcohol has on people as part of my duty, and I'd be damned if I ever let myself sink that low, for Pete Malloy was NOTHING like his daddy, he had too much goddamned pride to ever do that.

_And oh how the mighty do fall…with a whimper, not a bang._

Sighing, I pull the leather folder from my shirt pocket once more, flipping it open to reveal the shiny metal badge that is pinned inside of it.  _Policeman_  it reads, in blue letters across the top of the silver shield, with the finely etched gold emblem of city hall beneath the banner.  _Los Angeles Police_  is beneath the emblem, along with my badge number, 744. I stare at plastic laminate departmental ID card that resides in the wallet with the badge, my eyes taking in my signature, my serial number, and the black and white picture of me that was taken just at the beginning of this year, when the new photos were taken as they are every year in order to update our ID's. Wearing a suit and tie, holding the placard that has my serial number on it under my chin as if I'm a common criminal instead of a cop, I look…I look young and innocent yet, still untouched by the tragedy of two weeks ago, and I realize bitterly that I will never again be as young and as innocent as I was five minutes before I made the decision to drive down that goddamned alleyway, five minutes before I watched Howie Parker die in front of me, five minutes before one world I knew forever ended and another began, this one a world of pain and sorrow and rage at the senselessness of it all. Tapping a fingernail against the badge, I run a thumb over the blue-embossed letters that form the word 'policeman', remembering how incredibly proud I was when I had that badge pinned on me for the very first time when I graduated from the Academy seven years ago, how proud I've been to wear it ever since, and how…how ashamed I am now to even consider pinning it on my uniform, unworthy of the honor accorded to me by that gold-and-silver oval shield that I wear on my chest.

My hand strays to the off-duty weapon that is nestled in a leather holster attached to my belt on the left side and I gently slide the gun out, feeling the heft of it in my palm as I study it. Running my fingers over the smooth metal barrel of the snub-nose .38 revolver, I remember when I was a rookie and it seemed like everytime I moved, the goddamned thing would jab me in the gut or the kidney, and while it's second nature to me now when I wear it, back then, I absolutely hated it, especially when chicks I'd date seemed more interested in THAT gun that I wore than the OTHER one. Knowing that the .38 is loaded, I break open the cylinder of it anyway with a satisfying  _click_ , eyes scanning over the bullets nestled into each chamber, bullets that are ready to do my bidding the moment I pull the trigger, bullets that are ready to save my life, or…

_Bullets that are ready to end it so easily if I wish._

I snap the cylinder shut with a flick of my wrist, the smooth wooden grip of the gun warming up in my grasp as the cylinder clicks shut, and I give it a spin, listening to the bullets as they rattle about like tiny little skeleton bones tap-dancing across the floor. Sitting up on the bed, I hold the gun in front of me, the barrel aiming downward as I line drifting dust motes up in the sight. I allow the hand holding the revolver to drop back to my lap, my eyes running over the weapon as if seeing it for the first time…the crisp silver snub-nose of the barrel, the deep whiskey color of the wooden grip, the delicately balanced trigger that my index finger automatically closes over in a rote gesture of memory and experience. I heft the weapon in my hand once more, weighing it, remembering how many pounds of pressure it takes to pull the trigger, wondering if I'd still have the guts to use those pounds of pressure to end someone's life like I've had to a few times in the past…

 _Wondering if I'd have the goddamned fucking guts to end my OWN life_.

I sit there silently in my bedroom, revolver in one hand, the badge in the other, the thought of killing myself not new to me over these last few days, becoming increasingly familiar, and actually somewhat pleasant to consider, once I think about it. Sure, it'd be messy as hell, and I'd hate to be the one that found me, but save for a few friends and family, no one would miss me if I were gone. My life, in harsh black and white retrospect, has not mattered much to many, including myself. Taken over the long run, I've done no great heroic deeds, save for a couple of incidents which earned me commendations and ribbons in my lengthy police career, and what are ribbons and commendations but bits of colored fabric and useless words on a sheet of paper. I've written no bestselling books or discovered no amazing cures for the many diseases that plague the human race, nor have I entertained the world through the magic of movies and television or music, making people laugh, making people cry, making people think. No, I've done none of that, living my life mostly for myself, following the notion of  _que sera sera_ , whatever will be will be, which has always been a good motto to live by, actually. And so's the old Biblical saying of 'an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.'

_After all, what better way to avenge Parker's death than to take my own life?_

I stare down at the gun with unseeing eyes, my index finger rubbing over the trigger reflexively, as I think best how to do it…head or heart? There's no guarantee either way that I'll be killed, since a bullet can enter one's brain and not kill you, just do some serious fucked-up damage to you that can leave you paraplegic or brain-dead. Of course, I AM a sharpshooter, a Distinguished Expert in fact, the highest shooting honor achievable on the force, which means whatever the hell I'm aiming to shoot at, there's a 99.9% chance that I WON'T miss. "Head or heart?" I ask myself out loud, my voice sounding hollow in my bedroom. I wonder if I do it now, how long they'd miss me not showing up at work before coming to check on me. I wonder who'd come looking too, Val or Mac? Probably Mac, because he has the key to my apartment, given to him so he could get my mail in while I was gone, and he hasn't given it back yet. My friends and family would be heartbroken and devastated that I was gone, but they'd soon get over it, especially in light of how easier life would be if I weren't in it any longer.

_Fuck, who knew my own personal Gethsemane would be so goddamned hard to endure?_

Emotion wells up in my throat, tightening it, and moisture creeps into my eyes for the second time in less than twenty-four hours. I replace the .38 back into its holster at my side and with a shaky intake of breath that sounds oddly like a sob, I swipe at my eyes with the palm of my hand, trying to sweep away the incriminating evidence that Pete Malloy has feelings before they can snail-track down my face. A few tears escape anyway, sneaking out of the corners of my closed eyes and slipping across my temples, wetting them, and I feel as goddamned desolate as I did last night when I stopped off at Baker's gravesite. I cried then, too, a very unbecoming thing for a big tough copper like myself to do, but it was only after I did so that I was able to reach my final decision, a decision that I know is right for me in the end…

_At least I'm trying to convince myself that it is, anyway._

Sniffling, I raise my eyes up to the ceiling again, wondering forlornly why the two men I would have expected most in the world to try to talk me out of this decision  _didn't_ , for when I stopped by the station last night to tell Sergeant Bill MacDonald and Lieutenant Val Moore what I'd planned to do, I had steeled myself for an outcry, a stern lecture, a good sturdy talking-to to convince me that I was making a rash and foolish mistake. But, to my shock and dismay and disappointment, both men accepted my words complacently, offering only a minor protest when I announced my plans, and it hurt like hell, because I wanted them…I NEEDED them to talk me out of it. Val was my training officer when I first came on the force, and I rode with Mac for a good couple of years before he got promoted to sergeant and I got promoted to training officer. It was a pair of friendships that had been firmly forged in seven years ago in the various hells and horrors and occasional hilarity that goes with the job of being a cop, and it was those cast-iron bonds I shared with Val and Mac that I had counted on catching me when I needed it last night, yet all I got was…

_Nothing._

Nothing except a couple of hearty handshakes and a pair of well-wishes for good luck. I'd walked into the watch commander's office last night prepared for battle in defense of my decision, and they'd waved the white flag of surrender instead. Fine friends THEY are, they're getting crossed off my Christmas card list, or at least they WOULD be if I had one, that is. Damn their easy acceptance of my plan anyway. Resentment for them settles into me with a bitter resolve, replacing the sorrow and drying up the tears from my eyes. I wonder acidly if the rest of the guys on the shift tonight will be as accepting too, if they find out what I have planned, then I tell myself that I don't give a damn what they think, no matter what. It's not like I've really cared anyway of what my fellow officers' opinions have been of me the last two weeks, especially considering how much like a goddamned fool I acted like in the locker room, my first day back at the job after Parker's funeral. I'd lashed out then, verbally and physically, in a manner more reminiscent of my father than myself, further proof that I'm following in the old man's footsteps. Still feeling the cool metal snap of the handcuffs that Mac slapped on me to calm me down, I swallow the sour taste that rises in my mouth as I remember my disgraceful breakdown that day, ashamed and angry and disappointed that I allowed myself to lose control like that. I'm not one to wear my heart on my sleeve, having learned since childhood to keep a tight rein on my emotions, hiding them behind a steel-fortress wall topped with razor wire in an effort to protect my soul and my heart and my mind from the horrors and the tragedies of the job.

_But even the strongest steel rusts **sometimes** , damn it._

Slipping the leather wallet and badge back into my shirt pocket, I rub at my eyes, glancing at the clock on my bedside, realizing that if I want to get to work a bit early in order to get a certain task done before I start my shift, I need to leave now. I heave myself off of the bed with a grunt, heading out into the living room, checking to make sure that the tails of my shirt cover up the revolver at my side. Satisfied that it's hidden, I grab my yellow windbreaker from the hook near the door, shrugging into it as I pick up my keys from the little wooden stand beneath the hook. I glance over at the black gear bag that is standing alongside the door, awaiting transport to the station, and I start to grab it up, but then I decide to wait and take it in tomorrow, when the day-shifters are working and there's less of a possibility that I'll run into anyone that knows me very well. My eyes land on a white envelope that lies atop the little wooden stand, and I pick it up, running my fingers over the name written on the back. It's unsealed, and I start to lick it to close it, then I halt, my tongue sticking out of my mouth halfway as I realize that once I seal it, it's one more step in making the contents of letter inside of it come true. And despite my resolve to go through with this, I'm not quite ready to seal the letter up just yet. The envelope clutched tightly in my fingers, I look around my apartment one last time before slipping out of the door, locking it behind me. I start down the wooden steps to my dark blue Mustang that is parked in the lot below.

Putting the key into the lock and unlocking the door, I cast a glance over the car's exterior, reminding myself that I need to get it to the car wash tomorrow to clean off the grime from my trip up to Lake Isabella. Sliding into the driver's seat, I lay the envelope on the seat next to me, slipping the key into the ignition and turning it, the Mustang's powerful V8 engine grumbling to life with delight. Backing out of my parking spot, I head the car in the direction of the station. The silence in the car, normally so soothing to me, is irritating instead, so I reach over and turn on the radio, just as a song starts up,  _The Weight_  by The Band. The lyrics bother me, so with a sigh, I reach over and turn the radio back off. "Stupid song," I mutter, shaking my head, my hands tightening slightly on the steering wheel. For I know that the only one who can carry the load for me is myself…

And the burdens of guilt and sorrow and anger weigh oh so heavily upon me, bowing my soul until I fear it might shatter into a million little pieces...

Pieces that can never be put back together at heart.

* * *

 

I pull into the lot of Central Division's stationhouse, easing the Mustang into one of the slots, parking next to an unfamiliar green Camaro and killing the ignition. The Camaro has never been parked here in the employees' lot before and I cast a suspicious eye over it, taking in the two dark-haired young men seated in the front seat, looking rather nervous as they carry on what appears to be an earnest conversation. I decide to get out of my car and ask them exactly what business they have here, so I turn to grab the envelope sitting next to me, opening my car door as I do.

**_THUNK!_ **

The door of the Camaro crashes into mine and I jump, quickly yanking my door back to free it. "Hey, watch it, kid!" I yelp angrily at the offender, the kid in the passenger seat of the Camaro. "Don't ding my car!"

"Sorry!" he apologizes hastily, face reddening in embarrassment as he pulls his door closed so that I can get out of the Mustang.

Seething inwardly at his carelessness, I ignore him as I climb out of my car, giving the door he just dinged a quick inspection, noticing with relief that there's not any damage done to my baby, because if there HAD been, that kid's head woulda rolled across the parking lot in no time flat. With a grimace, I lock the door and slam it shut, the envelope clutched tightly in my fingers. I turn, preparing to give the two kids in the Camaro a serious tongue-lashing as they climb out of their car, planning on finding out what in the hell they're doing back here in the first place, but then I freeze in shock, for the kid getting out of the passenger side is none other than the kid I ran into at the Academy track a couple of weeks ago, the same kid that was so eager to get Central Division for his rookie year assignment because he'd heard it was a great division to work in. My scrambling brain pukes up his name for me… _Reed, Jim Reed_ , and with dawning horror, I realize that in the turmoil of the last two weeks, I'd forgotten that we were due to get two more rookies from the latest batch of Academy grads, and that these kids must be Central's new babies. Panic grips at me then, plummeting my stomach to my toenails and seizing up my lungs, making me break out in an icy sweat as it occurs to me that in my capacity as one of the only two training officers on this watch, I'll likely be saddled with one of these kids for tonight unless I can make a case to Val to toss the kid to someone else. I mean, surely Val wouldn't expect me to take on a rookie tonight, of ALL nights…would he? I start to send up a prayer asking that he wouldn't, then FUCK, I remember I don't believe in God any longer, so it will do me little good to pray.

The youngster named Reed locks the Camaro's door and turns to me, flashing me a high-voltage grin, his teeth gleaming white in his tanned face. Built like a tall skinny stork, he has finely chiseled features and bright blue eyes that peer about with natural inquisitiveness, his overall looks as glossily handsome as any movie star's. By contrast, his companion is stockier built, somewhat baby-faced under dark curly hair, but both give off that eager newness that all rookies give off until the end of their first day on the job, after they've experienced the eight, nerve-wracking hours of hell on their shift that leaves them wondering if they're really cut out for this kind of job. Still smiling, Reed begins to offer another apology. "I guess I didn't see you pull in next to…"

"Forget it," I gruff around the choking panic still welled up in my throat, interrupting him with a sharp wave of my hand, the envelope I still clutch fluttering a little in the light breeze. I see a glimmer of recall flashing in his eyes as he apparently also remembers meeting me on the Academy track, but I pretend not to recognize him, turning away with a scowl, shoving a hand into the pocket of my windbreaker and stalking off towards the rear entrance of the station before he can say anything further in greeting. The last thing I need right now is to have to pretend friendliness to a kid I only met once, on a night when I wanted to run like hell from the city and leave everything behind me, on the night before I was due to act as a pallbearer for my former partner. And discovering that the kid is now working in Central for his rookie year, it feels like a cruel little joke God has decided to play on me for not believing in Him any longer. I only hope like hell Val takes pity on me and plants the two kids with someone else tonight.

Behind me, Reed and his buddy fall in, following me at a respectful distance, but not so respectful that I can't hear what they're saying about me. "Sheesh, what an ass," the driver of the Camaro says in a disdainful whisper. "Hope he's not one of our fellow cops on this shift."

"Better yet, hope he's not one of our training officers," Reed replies sotto voce, equally disdainful.

Their comments sting me sharply, making me feel even more miserable than I already do. My face burns with embarrassment and I long to turn around and rip into them, but I bite my tongue, steeling my resolve and settling for giving them a scornful glare over my shoulder that lets them know I've heard every single word they've just said about me. I grab the handle of the grey-painted stationhouse door, yanking it open, fully prepared to let it slam in their faces, but common courtesy takes hold of me at the last minute and I hold it open for them, barely disguising my dismay at doing so.

"Thanks," Reed's friend says to me with a nod. The two of them enter the station, their eyes as wide as schoolkids' are when they take a classroom tour through the station, and it's clear they're drinking all the wondrous sights and sounds of the station with slack-jawed amazement like they've never been here before, even though I know they had to come in sometime this past week for orientation and to get their paperwork in order. Their bright shiny eagerness eats at me, the panic welling in my throat once more, nausea rising in my gut as my breath leaves my body and refuses to return. I have to get away from them, away from the bright shiny newness that gleams from them like a freshly minted copper penny, the copper yet untouched and unmarred by the harsh slings and arrows of the job, their wide-eyed eagerness having yet to bear witness all the hell and horror and humor that goes along with being a cop.

_And besides, they remind me too much of Parker right now._

Turning away from them once more, I flee down the beige corridor, my footsteps clicking on the tile as I round the corner and out of their sight. I pause then, my heart trip-hammering in my chest as I lean a palm against the cinderblock wall, trembling, my head down as I try to coax oxygen back into my lungs, swallowing hard the lump of terror that still aches in my throat, willing my sourly rolling stomach to stay where it's at, feeling myself break out in an icy sweat again. My head pounds, the familiar ache of a headache taking up residence behind my eyes, so I fish in the pocket of my pants, plucking out the little tin of aspirin I carry with me. I hear the two rookies debating in the hallway around the corner about which way the locker room lies, and I don't want them to see me like this, so I shove open the break room door, hoping like hell that it's empty.

To my relief, it is, and I quickly cross it to get to the sink, setting the envelope I still clutch in my hand down on the counter just long enough for me to open the aspirin tin and shake two tablets out, replacing the tin in my pocket as I grab a styrofoam cup, flipping on the tap to get a drink. Tossing the tablets in my mouth, I wash them down with cool swig of water, wishing like hell it were whiskey instead. Wiping my mouth on the back of my hand, I toss the cup into the trash and pick up the envelope once more. It rattles crisply in my hands as I stare at the name scrawled in black ink in my chicken scratch on the back of it. I know I should go deliver it to the person it's intended for, Captain Don Grant, the man who is the head of Central Division, but when I try to force myself to move towards his office, my knees begin to buckle and I sag weakly into one of the molded orange plastic chairs that sits at a nearby table instead, the envelope dropping from my fingers to land on the white Formica-topped table in front of me.

Drawing in a deep breath and blowing it out with a shaky sigh, I run trembling fingers through my hair, swiping the sweat away from my forehead with a palm, glancing briefly at the coffeepot, but realizing that the way my stomach feels right now, coffee's the last thing I need in it. I look up at the clock on the break room wall and see I still have a few moments to collect myself before I need to go get ready for my shift, so I decide to give the letter one last look-see before sealing the envelope and my fate forever. Gingerly I stretch my fingers out, pinning the envelope to the table and lifting the flap of it, freeing the folded letter that is tucked within. Gently unfolding it, I smooth the single sheet of white paper out before me, trying to focus unseeing eyes on the few lines of words that are written on the paper, the blurring words already familiar to me since I wrote them out last night. Suddenly the door bangs open and the two squabbling rookies burst in, the Reed kid in the lead, the wavy-haired kid right behind him. Startled by their noisy unwanted intrusion into my moments of quiet introspection, I look up with a sharp scowl, hastily slapping a hand over the letter, instinctively protecting the contents of it, for the less people that know what I intend to do tonight, the better. They freeze up in startlement when they spy me, their eyes going slightly wide with something that resembles fear as they clearly remember me as the ogre from the parking lot. "Yes?" I snap, glaring at them with irritation. "Can I help you two with something?"

"Um…we're…we're looking for the break room," the kid named Reed squeaks nervously, his face blushing scarlet with embarrassment.

The other kid promptly whacks him at the back of the head with an open palm. "You mean the LOCKER ROOM, you nimrod," he hisses sharply. "We're already IN the break room, dunderhead."

I stare at Tweedledum and Tweedledee for a moment, wondering just how in the hell they managed to get onto the force in the first fucking place if they can get lost on their way to the locker room. They gaze back at me with fearful, if somewhat hopeful expressions, looking very much like a set of earnest little puppies that long for kindness at the hands of strangers. Laughter at their predicament bubbles up inside of me, tickling at my throat and I realize I could be a total ass and send them to the ladies' john, but I decide to cut them a break, remembering how earnest and eager I was as a rookie too, although I never got lost on the way to the locker room. "Locker room's out that door and straight down the end of the hall on your right," I tell them crisply, nodding towards the break room door that's on the other side of the room.

"Okay, thanks!" the youngster named Reed says brightly, flashing me a gleaming smile once more, then he and the other young pup begin to wend their way around the tables to reach the opposite door. Reed accidentally bumps into one of the chairs on his way, the chair screeching loudly, making a raucous farting noise as it scrapes across the floor. Wincing slightly, he gives me an apologetic look. "Uh…sorry," he says timidly.

I just roll my eyes with a weary sigh, shaking my head watching their progress with mild disdain. As klutzy as the Reed kid appears to be, I give him one night out in the field before he winds up shooting himself in the ass with his own service revolver. Suddenly, downright pissiness strikes me and I decide to toss off a little jibe at the two of them. "Hey," I call as they reach the door.

The Reed kid stops, giving me a puzzled look over his shoulder. "Yeah?" he replies cautiously, for clearly he's uneasy in my forbidding presence, which is a good thing to be.

"You two DO know which way's left and which way's right, don'tcha?" I ask sarcastically, allowing myself a cool little smirk to play across my lips.

"Of course," he scoffs with indignation, reddening once more, this time with irritation rather than embarrassment as he's stung into defending himself and the other kid. "Whaddaya think we are, idiots?"

Fighting the urge to laugh once more, I stare at him, pinning him down with my eyes as I let the smirk widen a bit. "I dunno, you tell me, kid," I reply snarkily. "You're the two who can't find the locker room." I can't help but chuckle at the frowns that cross the faces of the two youngsters in almost carefully choreographed tandem as they realize I've zinged them good. I know I should feel a little bit bad for being so rude to Central's newest babies, but for some reason, I cannot.

Apparently deciding to ignore my little barb, Reed yanks the door open with a look of disgust that he tosses over his shoulder at his buddy. "Oh, I SO do not wanna have him as a T.O.," he mutters sourly.

"Or even as a partner," the other kid replies in a whisper I can hear, then the door swings shut on them and I'm left alone in the break room once more.

I return my attention to the letter in front of me, running my fingers across the words written before me, remembering how goddamned hard it was for me to write them last night. My hand strays to the breast pocket of my shirt, my touch lighting for a brief second upon the pack of cigarettes tucked within, then I push them out of the way to grasp the leather folder holding my badge. I pluck it free again, opening it as I lay it on the table next to the letter. The badge casts bright glints of light across the ceiling of the break room, shimmering and gleaming before me, and I put a thumb and forefinger on the leather folder, giving it a spin, watching idly as it revolves, the beams of reflected light bouncing across the walls like a glitter ball at a discotheque, the leather whispering softly upon the table. The folder comes to a halt, the badge facing me neatly. Picking it up, I run a thumb across the embossed blue numbers of 744, the metal still warm from being in contact with my skin through the fabric of my shirt.

"Seven years on the force," I whisper to myself. I wonder to if those two rookies will ever get to seven years, or if they'll wind up being washed out…or worse yet, killed in the line of duty before they even receive their five-year hash mark on their sleeve. "Seven goddamned long years," I mutter. I tilt the folder gently back and forth, letting the sunrays of reflected light skim across the walls and ceiling as I study my badge with something akin to reverence and awe, remembering how proud I was the day it got pinned on my uniform for the very first time, and how proud I've been since then to be accorded the continued honor of wearing it upon my chest each time I've put on the blue dacron. "Seven goddamned great years," I hoarse out as sudden emotion wells up in my throat, dampening my eyes again, then ashamed, I glance at the door, hoping like hell no one comes in right now and sees me like this, for it wouldn't be good if it got around that Pete Malloy was spotted sitting in the break room, his badge in his hand, bawling like a little baby. Sighing heavily and swiping at my eyes with the palm of my hand, I tuck the leather folder back into my breast pocket. I pick up the letter, the paper rattling a bit in my shaking hands as I stare at the words before me once more.

 _Dear Captain Grant,_  it reads.  _I, Peter J. Malloy, badge #744, serial #10743, am hereby formally tendering my resignation as a sworn full-time police officer for the city of Los Angeles, effective as of tomorrow's date of February 22, 1968._  Below that brief sentence is my printed name, then my signature verifying that the letter is authentic.

The words swim in front of me for a moment as I realize the enormity of what this means for me, leaving my job so suddenly like this without having another one lined up, which is pretty unlike me, for I like to have things planned out well in advance if I can. Unfortunately, I hadn't really given much thought to what I'd do for a job last night when I penned the letter, focusing only on getting it written and nothing else. Granted, I've got enough stashed away in my savings to tide me over until I do get something else, but I wonder with a dart of fear just what exactly I'll DO for a job, since being a cop is really the only career I've ever had, outside of factory work. Pressing fingers to my temples, I try to scour away the panic that begins to thrum in my blood once more, knowing I should feel relieved and confident of my decision, having thought long and hard on it over the last few days, but instead I feel…I feel…like I'm making the biggest goddamned fucking mistake in my life that I've ever made, one that I'll live to regret in the end.

_Oh, but que sera sera, Pete, isn't that your motto that you live by? Whatever will be, will be?_

My hands still shaking slightly, I carefully refold the letter and slip it back into the envelope, licking the flap this time and finally sealing it and my fate shut with determined finality. Glancing at the break room clock I realize that I no longer have time to drop the letter off at Grant's office before I get changed into my uniform, so I'll have to wait and drop it off after roll call and before I get out on the street. Standing up from the table, the letter clasped tightly in my trembling fingers, I go over to the break room door, pausing a moment as I cast one last glance around the empty room, my shoulders slumped, feeling hollow and empty and depressed instead of elated and relieved at what I'm about to do. I glance down at the envelope, realizing that when my fellow officers and friends find out what I'm planning on doing, they'll be shocked as hell, for it seemed a given I'd retire out as a cop and no one would imagine that I'd just so willingly walk away like this…

Least of all ME.

But maybe I'll get lucky and word won't get out until after I'm already gone, for Mac and Val are the only two that know of my intentions so far and they agreed last night not to tell anyone I was quitting until after I'd already left. And hell, who knows, maybe my fellow officers and friends will actually be relieved to see me leave the force, especially since I broke one of the main tenets of police work, that of keeping my partner safe, managing to get Howie Parker murdered on my watch, my own carelessness killing him just as much as the gunshots did. And no one wants to be paired up with a man like that, fearing that they would be the next one to fall victim to his negligence and lose their life. Drawing in a deep breath and letting it out in a sigh, I close my eyes for a second, pinching the bridge of my nose, then I straighten my shoulders and shove open the break room door, steeling my resolve as I head down the hallway towards the locker room, the taste of my decision like bitter ashes in my mouth.

_Because tonight's the night that I finally walk away from my seven-year career as a police officer for the city of Los Angeles, putting on the uniform and the badge for the very last time._

 


	2. The Badge: Jim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALL ORIGINAL CONTENT OF THIS STORY, INCLUDING MY OWN CREATED FANON, CHARACTERS OR OTHER SPECIFIC DETAILS UNIQUE TO MY WORK IS THE SOLE PROPERTY OF BAMBOOZLEPIG AND MAY NOT BE USED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION

**THE BADGE: JIM**

**1968**

"Reed," I snap in a threatening growl, quickly flipping open the leather wallet that contains my badge and departmental ID and flashing it at the suspected perp, giving him a glower that is designed to make him cringe in fear. "Detective Jim Reed. Homicide. We wanna talk to you, pal." A thrilling little shiver runs down my spine as I realize I sound just like that staccato-voiced, dour-faced detective on the hit TV show _Badge 714._

I close the wallet and flip it open again, putting so much energy into my scowl that my temples ache with the effort as I snarl, "Agent James A. Reed of the F.B.I., we've got a few questions for you and you're gonna answer them, even if we hafta haul you in before J. Edgar himself." The sunlight streaming in through the window catches the shiny surface of the meticulously buffed metal shield as I twist it around to look at it, sending glints of light flickering over the walls and across the ceiling.

Then I lose my grip on the wallet, my fingers fumbling with it for a moment before it drops to the floor with a soft little thud. "Damn it," I mutter, bending down and retrieving it with an irritated sigh. I straighten back up, flipping the wallet open once more with a crisp little snap that sounds rather impressive and official. "Bond," I say in a suave, faux-British voice. "James Bond. Agent Double-Oh-Seven. And THIS is my license to kill." Tucking the wallet back into my shirt pocket, I clasp my hands together, making a gun of my thumbs and forefingers and striking a very Bond-like pose. "I like my martinis shaken, not stirred, and my women…"

"You like your women what?" interrupts a voice from behind me, and startled, I whip around to see my wife, Jean, standing in the bedroom doorway, watching my James Bond imitation with amusement.

"Eh…never mind," I offer hastily, the blush of embarrassment creeping heatedly into my face. "I was just…uh…just…"

"Play-acting?" Jean asks sweetly, a guileless expression upon her face.

"Yeah, something like that," I mutter. "How long were you standing there, honey?"

"Long enough," she laughs, coming into the bedroom. She puts her arms around my waist and hugs me, looking up at me with love shining in her dark brown eyes. "Your pose is cute, but your English accent is atrocious, Mr. Bond," she says, grinning. "You sound like a cross between a drunken Cockney and Ringo Starr."

"Sheesh, everyone's a critic," I grumble in mock-annoyance as I wrap my arms around her, planting a gentle kiss upon her forehead.

"Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?" she quips, lightly running her fingers through my hair and sending pleasant little prickles of delight tickling across my scalp.

"Probably a little of both," I tell her, pushing out of her embrace and putting a hand to the snub-nosed off-duty weapon tucked into the leather holster hooked to my belt at my side, trying to reposition it so that it's not jabbing me in the kidney. "Man, I'm gonna have a hard time getting used to wearing this."

"I'm having a hard time getting used to you wearing a gun, _period._ " Jean's mood turns glum as she folds her arms across her chest and turns her back on me.

I put my hands on her shoulders, giving them a squeeze. "Honey, we've been over this before," I tell her wearily. "We've beaten this issue to death, resurrected it, then beaten it to death once more. We've both argued about it so much I can almost quote our quarrels verbatim by now. Let's give it a rest, okay?"

"But are you _sure_ this is what you want to do?" she asks as she twists out of my grasp and turns to face me, anger flickering across her delicate features, her mouth drawing up mean and tight as she builds steam for what must be our thousandth argument over this issue. "It just seems a shame that you're throwing away your business degree in order to become a _cop._ " The last word is spit from between her pinched lips like it's an epithet, dirty and bitter on her tongue.

Sighing, I sit down on the edge of the bed, running a hand through my hair. "You know I don't want to work in my dad's shop and I don't want to go into the insurance business with your father. A nine to five gig just isn't in my blood."

"And this is?" Her chin juts in sharp tandem with the accusation in her voice.

"We agreed I could at least _try_ this to see how it works out, remember? And if it turns out that I hate it or can't cut it, then I'll quit and get a job that will let me utilize my business degree. Besides, this is a great way for me to contribute back to society," I soothe, reaching out for her hand, gently entwining her small fingers in my larger ones.

"But there's plenty of other ways for you to contribute back to society, Jim," she protests. "You could volunteer at a soup kitchen, you could help out at the church food pantry, you could…"

"Put on the gun and badge and go out fighting crime in the streets of Los Angeles," I interject. "Jean, you don't understand. I want to feel like I'm actually _doing_ some kind of good in the world. Volunteering at a soup kitchen or food pantry just doesn't _call_ to me like police work does."

"I know," she says, heaving a sigh as she pulls her hand from mine, her palms ironing out imaginary wrinkles in the skirt of her dress. "But I keep thinking of that young officer who was just gunned down two weeks ago in the same division you're going to be working in. There was that picture in the newspaper of his wife and little baby girl at his funeral and I can't help but wonder if…if…that'll ever be me in that black mourning dress, accepting the neatly folded flag from the chief of police and listening to him tell me how proud I should be that you made such a noble sacrifice of your life in the line of duty."

"Honey, you know I'll always be careful out there," I try reassuring her, but the guilt that has been dogging me ever since I graduated from the academy gnaws on my conscience, for the young police officer's death has driven home the dangers of the job. "And it's not like I'm going to be working on my own, I'll have a training officer with me at all times."

Her hands clench into fists at her side, anger pinkening her face once more. "But all the training officers and being careful in the world may not be enough to protect you. I'm sure that young officer also promised his wife that he'd always be careful and look where it's gotten him: six feet under as his grieving widow clutches the flag that draped his coffin, her baby crying at her side. What a cold comfort that is, having a damned flag to wrap your arms around instead of your husband."

"Jean, look…" I say quietly. "Tonight's my first night working as a cop. Can't you at least set aside your anger for now and _pretend_ to have enough faith in me to believe I know what I'm doing?"

Her expression softens and she settles on the bed next to me, laying a hand on my arm. "Jim, it's not that I don't have faith in you because I do. I have all the faith in the world in you and do not _ever_ think I don't believe in you. It's just that I want you to reach your full potential, that's all. I know you can accomplish anything you set your mind to doing and if being a police officer is truly something you want to do, then I will support it—I may not understand it or agree with it, but I will support you in it."

"Then why doesn't it feel like you believe in me right now? Why doesn't it feel like you're supporting me?" I ask, tugging gently on a tendril of her hair.

"I'm just afraid, that's all. I'm afraid for you, for me, for our unborn baby. I worry for your safety and for our security, for how we're both going to cope with the stresses of being a police officer and a police officer's wife." She lies back on the bed, her auburn hair spreading out behind her like a flame over the blue-and-white flowered bedspread, her eyes fixed on the ceiling overhead as she drapes her hands across her stomach. "And please don't try to negate my feelings on this, Jim. Please don't make me feel guilty for being worried, for being scared for you, for us. You're after me to see it from your point of view…well, try seeing it from my point of view as well. My beloved husband is going off to work tonight at a job that may wind up costing him his life." There is a sharp edge of bitterness in her voice, tinged with sorrow, and when she blinks, I can see the silver glisten of tears in her eyes. She looks defeated right now, beaten down and even smaller than she really is.

I settle in next to her, propping my head up on my fist as I look at her. "Hell, who knows, I might wind up accidentally shooting my training officer in the ass and get washed out of the department before the night is through," I joke, trying to cheer her up.

"But a split second is all it takes," she says, shaking a finger at me. "A split second could take you away from me…" She pauses then, cupping her stomach with her hands. "From US." She looks over at me then, tears slipping from the corners of her eyes. "Jim, do you want our unborn child to grow up, never knowing its father?"

"The chances of that happening are pretty slim, honey," I comfort, putting my own hand over the small mound of her stomach, her pregnancy just beginning to show on her tiny frame. "And I promise, I will keep myself safe for both you AND him." I lean forward then, resting my head on her belly, hearing the faint thub-dub of her heartbeat. "Hear that little fella?" I call softly. "Your daddy will do everything in his power to keep himself safe for you and your mommy, okay?"

"Jim, you can make that promise to us, but you know there's no guarantee you can keep it," she chides.

I know she's right…as much as I can make her that promise before each shift, it can be turned into a lie in a heartbeat. "Look," I sigh in irritation, "all I can do is tell you that I'll try my damnedest to be safe each shift, okay? And why aren't you _this_ worried when you send me out on a run for butterbrickle ice cream? I could get killed in a car wreck or hit by a car in the store parking lot, or I could trip over the curb…"

"Don't try to evade the issue," she says, sliding soft fingers through my hair. "We wouldn't be having _this_ conversation if you worked as an accountant or a banker or an insurance agent."

I shrug. "Those jobs can be dangerous…there's always the risk of a bank robbery, or papercuts or wayward staples. I could have a filing cabinet drawer slam shut on my fingers. I could drop a ledger book on my foot. I could run off to Tahiti with a sexy blonde secretary named Bambi. We could do a lot of dictation and note-taking in the sand. Naked." I waggle my eyebrows at her, giving her a lascivious leer.

"In case you have forgotten, sex on the beach isn't all it's cracked up to be, pun intended," she says, pinching my arm, her mouth twitching in an attempt at a brave smile. "Remember getting sand in your ass crack? And besides, if you take up with Bambi the wonder bimbo, I'll take up with Rick, the hunky gardener I hire to take care of the lawn while you and I are getting divorced. We can do a lot of planting and furrowing with his big gardening implements. So let's see how smart you are _then,_ James Aloysius Reed."

"Uh-oh," I whisper to her stomach. "Mommy just used all three of my names…that's not a good sign, Junior." I start raining tiny kisses on the bump of her tummy, the cotton fabric of her dress rough against my lips.

"Jim, stop being silly," she snorts, putting a hand at the back of my neck and tickling me with her nails, evidence that my attempt at cheering her up is working a bit. "Besides, I doubt the baby can hear you just yet."

"Sure he can," I grin, turning my head to look at her. "He's his father's child, after all."

"You're pretty certain it's going to be a boy, huh?" she chuckles, swiping at the tears on her face with the palm of her hand, trying to remove all traces of her worry and sorrow.

"I'm 100 percent sure it's gonna be a boy," I say confidently. "Boys run in my family, remember?"

"And girls run in mine, I've got three sisters, remember?" she says with a gleeful jibe, poking me in the shoulder with a finger. "So whaddaya gonna do if it's a girl, Mister?"

I shrug, smirking at my pretty little wife. "Keep her, I guess, and start trying for a boy again as soon as possible."

"Oh, you're all heart, Mister Reed," she says, rolling her eyes and laughing.

"And even more, too," I say, offering her a saucy wink as I move to kiss her, gently at first, then picking up speed as her mouth opens under mine, admitting my tongue. Her fingers twine in my hair, gripping the strands tightly as she cups the back of my neck with her other hand. "Now what were we talking about?" I ask in a hoarse rasp when we finally come up for air, a rush of heated desire for my wife flooding my veins. We have been married for three years now, and she can still ignite the fire of want within me with just a single kiss.

"Mmm…I don't know," she murmurs drowsily, her eyes half closed as she traces my mouth with a gentle finger, her touch as light as a butterfly's caress. "Painting the bathroom, maybe?" she says with a giggle, flicking her eyes wide open and giving me a downright smartassy look.

"Are you still on that?" I grumble, kissing the tip of her nose and sliding a hand across her stomach, resting it lightly against her hip, my thumb rubbing small circles against the cotton fabric of her pink-checkered dress. I drop my hand even lower then, fingers gripping the hem of her skirt as I gently push it upward, exposing the length of her hip and thigh. I slide a soft palm along that silky expanse, feeling her quiver a little in response to my touch, and then my fingers work their way up, coming to rest a moment on the cotton fabric of her panties.

"Yes," she whispers, running a nail along the line of my jaw, then she pulls me down for another kiss, deep and long, our tongues stroking together in a delicate dance as she grips at my hair with one hand, her other hand digging nails into my bicep. She moans softly in my mouth when I slip a finger past the leg band of her panties. "Seafoam green or sunshine yellow?" she asks in a half-groan when we break apart once more, the two of us panting slightly now with wanton hunger for one another.

"Paint it whorehouse red, for all I care," I whisper back, moving to cover her body with mine then as she wraps her arms around me, her hands stroking along my back and inflaming me even further. "We've got more…ah… _pressing_ things to worry about right now." Giving her a sultry look, I begin to unbutton the front of her dress, my fingers working to slip the tiny white buttons through the even tinier buttonholes. "Damn it," I mutter with frustration, fumbling a bit. "Why'd they hafta make these stupid buttonholes so damned small?" With a grunt, I reposition myself to get a better angle of attack on the dratted buttons.

"Jim!" she exclaims in a sudden yelp, trying to push me away. "Your gun!"

"Which one, honey?" I purr seductively.

"THAT one!" she says, gesturing to the off-duty weapon in the holster at my side…CLEARLY not the gun I was hoping she meant. "It just jabbed me!"

"Oh God, I'm sorry, honey," I say hastily, quickly shifting off her and giving her a worried look. "Are you okay?"

"I'll be okay, but I'm not so sure my hipbone will be," she grimaces, rubbing at her hip with her hand. "New rule in the house…no attempts at cuddling until you take that gun off of your belt," she says firmly.

"Okey dokey," I nod in agreement. "No nookie until the gun is put away." I give her a sly wink and a leer. "Now…about the OTHER gun…" I start to lean in for another kiss when suddenly a car horn honks from the street outside our apartment building. I glance at the clock on the bedside, realizing with a start what time it is. "Damn it," I groan, slowly sitting up, albeit rather uncomfortably, given the worked-up state I'm currently in. "He has the WORST timing of anyone I know." I draw in a deep breath, trying to chase the lust out of my blood, urging my mind to think of other things right now than making love to my wife…things like…like…oh, damn it, nothing comes to mind, other than how close I was to getting a little afternoon delight just now.

"C'mon, dear," Jean says, sliding off the bed and standing up, smoothing her dress down and patting a hand through her hair. "You don't want to keep him waiting; you know how impatient he gets."

"Yeah, I know," I grumble, coming to my feet with a groan of dismay. "Can we continue this little…uh…activity when I get home tonight?" I ask a bit mournfully as I follow her down the hallway to the living room, her firm little ass swishing back and forth in front of me rather delightfully, reminding me of what I just missed.

"Sure," she calls gaily over her shoulder. "Just as soon as we decide on a color for the bathroom."

"Thought we were going for whorehouse red," I say, grabbing my blue windbreaker from a peg near the front door. Slipping it on, I zip it up so that it hides the off-duty weapon.

"Jim Reed, I will NOT have a bathroom that looks like it belongs in a house of ill-repute," Jean chides firmly. "Now do you have money for your lunch break?"

"Yes, I do," I say, nodding.

"And you've already taken all your gear to the station, right?" she asks.

"Yes, Mother," I sigh, rolling my eyes dramatically. "I made sure I took everything in yesterday when we went in to fill out our paperwork. It's already stashed in my locker at the station."

"And you have your badge, right?" she continues.

"Yep," I say, patting the breast pocket that contains the leather wallet with my badge. "Right here." Outside, the horn beeps again, sounding impatient. "Gotta go, honey, my ride's waiting." I bend down and give her a peck on the lips.

"You call THAT a kiss, Jim Reed?" she asks, giving me a small scowl. Grabbing me by the front of my coat, she pulls me down for a delicious kiss that leaves me breathless when we part, and _seriously_ considering calling in sick, even on this auspicious first day. "Now THAT'S a kiss," she says, winking slyly at me.

"Something to look forward to when I come home," I smile, winking back, my hand on the knob of the front door.

"Just make sure you DO come home tonight," she says as I start out the door. "Jim," she pleads then, the urgency in her voice drawing me up short and halting me on the front step. "Please," she says softly, her voice as hushed as a prayer. "Be careful out there. I…" She pauses, placing a hand over her stomach in a protective gesture, dropping her gaze only briefly before raising her eyes to meet mine once more, worry and fear plainly visible within the brown depths again. "WE need you…"

"I know, I'll be careful, I swear," I gently interrupt, kissing her on the cheek. "I love you, honey."

"I love you, too," she murmurs, turning away from the door then and shutting it softly behind her. Biting my lip, I shuffle forlornly down the front sidewalk to the green Camaro parked at the curb.

"Will you COME ON?" the driver shouts from the interior of the car, ducking his head to peer at me through the open passenger side window. "Christ, I've been waiting out here for an hour!"

"Oh, don't get your jock shorts in a bunch, Bucky," I grumble as I climb into the vehicle.

"What in the hell took you so long?" asks Bill Stenzler. He has been my best friend since grade school and we've been through _everything_ together, including the police academy. It was nothing but pure luck of the draw that the two of us were assigned Central Division, the only division that both of us wanted to work in.

"I had to make love to my wife one last time, Stenz," I bullshit as I slam the car door.

He looks askance at me, raising an eyebrow. "Yeah, uh-huh," he replies, putting the Camaro into gear and pulling away from the curb with a little squeal of the tires. "Making love to your wife. That's more of a five-second job than a ten-minute one," he says, shooting me a shit-eating grin.

"Oh shut up," I tell him good-naturedly, my mood lightening a bit. "You're just jealous 'cuz Jean and I are still in the newlywed stage of our marriage yet, but you and Beth have already gotten to the boring old married couple routine."

"Newlyweds," he snorts derisively. "Hell, Jimbo, you and Jean have been married for three years now, PLUS you have a kid coming on…"

"Which is AMPLE proof that I can _clearly_ last more than five seconds when making love to my wife," I interrupt with a proud boast, thumping my chest with a fist.

"Either that or you just have good aim," he replies glibly.

"Are you calling into question the veracity of my manhood?" I mock-growl at him.

"I don't know that I'm calling into question your verasa-whatever, but I AM saying that the track wasn't the ONLY place you were fast at," he laughs.

"Smartass," I reply. "You're just jealous 'cuz I graduated higher than you from the Academy."

"You graduated second, I graduated third," he says. "Not a big difference there, Jimbo."

"Sez you, Bucky," I gloat. I fish in my breast pocket and pull out the leather folder with my badge inside of it. I open it, the sunlight glinting brightly off it, sending sunrays into my eyes for a moment.

"Christ, you still moonin' over that damn thing?" he grumbles, glancing over at me.

"Can I help it if I like looking at it?" I say, rubbing a thumb across the numbers "2430" embossed in blue at the bottom of the silver-and-gold shield that made my heart swell with pride as Jean pinned the badge on my uniform at my graduation from the Academy.

"Yeah," he says a bit dryly. "But it seems like such a small prize to get after all that hard work we put in at the Academy."

"I know," I say. "But it was an effort well worth it, wouldn't you say?"

"Eh…" he says, giving me a one-shouldered shrug of casual indifference. "I guess."

"You're kidding me, right?" I ask, giving him a narrow-eyed look of suspicion. "You mean to tell me that after all that crap we went through at the academy, you NOW don't feel even the slightest bit excited about our first day on the job as full-fledged cops?"

"Jimbo," he says with a straight-faced serious look. "Are you _ever_ gonna learn when I'm yankin' your chain?" Then he laughs again, breaking into a wide easy grin to remind me that he's just screwing with me in his usual Stenzler fashion. "Of COURSE I'm excited about our first day on the job." He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "In fact, I've BEEN ready since our first day at the Academy."

"Liar," I jibe gleefully, punching him in the arm for drawing a gullible me into his crafty trap once more. "On our first day at the Academy, you wanted to quit. You said it was too damned hard."

"Hit me again and I'll shoot you with my gun," he says in mock-warning. "I'm not afraid to use it, ya know. And I think under the circumstances, punching the person who's being nice enough to drive you to your job might be grounds for justifiable homicide."

"Hey, it's good to know you remembered _some_ of the terms we learned at the Academy," I snort. "And F.Y.I., you're driving me to work because YOU'RE going the same way and you only live a half-mile from me, so it only makes sense for the two of us to carpool, you idiot."

"Who you callin' 'idiot', idiot?" he jibes back, running a hand through his dark wavy hair. "At least I'M not the one who can't remember the spelling rule."

"What spelling rule?" I ask, giving him a puzzled look.

"I before E, except after C," he intones professorially. "Remember? You kept screwing up the words 'receipt' and 'receive' on those fake reports we had to write, and Sergeant Bowman kept riding your ass about it."

"Yeah, but _**I**_ wasn't the one who fell off of the top of the climbing wall and landed headfirst in the mud below, coming up looking like a hog that's been rolling in the dirt," I tease.

"Yeah, well, _**I**_ wasn't the one who kept tripping over his own two big feet during the self-defense classes," he teases back. "They actually had a nickname for you, Jimbo. They called you 'Wrecking Ball Reed' behind your back."

"Oh, _lovely_ ," I say, rolling my eyes in dismay. "Hope that nickname doesn't transfer to the station." I shoot him a dirty look. "And if it _does,_ I'll know who they heard it from."

"What?" he shrugs, giving me an innocent look. Then he points a finger out the windshield. "Look, the station is straight ahead," he says, then the two of us fall quiet as the red-brick building of Central Division looms before us, suddenly reminding us of what a monumental undertaking we're about to embark upon…that of a sworn police officer for the city of Los Angeles. A shiver of anticipation slips icy fingers down my spine, settling coldly in the center of my gut, making me feel as wound up as I used to feel every year on the first day of school. Glancing over at Stenzler, I wonder if he's feeling the same way right now.

His mouth is set in a grim line as he pulls into the station parking lot, guiding the Camaro into a slot with practiced ease. He kills the engine, his eyes fixed firmly ahead as he grips the steering wheel tightly in his hands, his knuckles white, his face even whiter. "Man," he says in a hushed tone of awe, looking over at me with wide eyes. "Can you BELIEVE it, Jim? Today is our first day as _cops_. We actually get to put all that training we went through at the academy to good use. We can even arrest the bad guys if we need to."

"Yeah, are you as nervous as I feel?" I ask, a slight quaver creeping into my voice.

"Oh HELL yeah," he shivers, giving me a fearful look. "But…but we can do this, right, Jim? I mean, we can do what we've set out to do here, right?" His tone is hesitant, uneasy.

"Oh yeah," I reply shakily, forcing an assurance into my own voice that I really don't feel. Then I pause, putting a hand upon the black dash of his car, feeling slightly nauseated with fright. "I mean, we CAN, can't we?"

Stenzler nods, turning to look at me with trembly bravado. "Damn straight, Jimbo. I mean, who finished up second and third in their entire class? The two of US, that's who." He gestures to us with a shaky hand. "Central Division should be _glad_ to get such fine young specimens of policemen on their force, right? I mean, you and I are gonna be LEGENDARY in this division for our bravery, our heroics, and our uncanny abilities to solve whatever crimes we encounter. Kind of like Toody and Muldoon, you know?" He forces a bit of boldness into his voice as if trying to convince himself that what he just said is the truth.

"Yeah, but let's make it a little less like _Car 54, Where Are You?_ and more like Sgt. Sunday on _Badge 714,_ okay?" I ask with a relieved chuckle, a bit of self-confidence flooding back into me. "And don't we actually hafta get outta the car and go INTO the station before we can start our jobs as cops?" I helpfully point out.

"That we do, Jimbo, that we do," he nods sagely, opening his car door and sliding out. "C'mon, what are we waiting for?"

"Right," I affirm, starting to open my car door and get out. However, I haven't noticed the dark blue Mustang that has pulled in next to us on my side, nor have I noticed the guy driving it is getting out at the same time I do, the two car doors meeting in a metallic thunk that rattles my teeth a bit.

"Hey, watch it, kid!" the red-haired man in the Mustang snarls, his green eyes narrowed in a nasty glare. With a start, I realize he's the officer I met out on the Academy track about a week ago. "Don't ding my car!"

"Sorry," I hastily apologize, pulling my door shut so that he can exit his vehicle and shut his door first. When he does, I slide out of the Camaro to offer further contrite apologies, trying to smile to show there was no harm meant. "I guess I didn't see you pull in next to…"

"Forget it," he crisply interrupts with a sharp wave of his hand, the white envelope he clutches in his fingers fluttering a bit in the breeze. With that, he turns on his heel and stalks ahead of Stenzler and I, marching across the pavement of the parking lot with steely determination.

"Sheesh, what an ass," Stenzler mutters, nudging me with an elbow as we fall in a few paces behind the guy. "Hope he's not one of our fellow cops on this shift."

"Better yet, hope he's not one of our training officers," I reply, sotto voce, giving Stenzler a wary look.

The man glances back over his shoulder at us, a look of dismay on his face as if he's unhappy we're even entering the same station as him. When he reaches the grey-painted door, he jerks it open with a sharp yank, then he almost lets it go shut before we can reach it, changing his mind at the last minute and holding it open with his palm.

"Thanks," Stenzler says as he catches the door with his own hand. He gets just a crisp nod in response and the man marches off down the tiled hallway, his rapid steps taking him quickly around a corner and out of our sight.

Stenzler grimaces as we amble down the hall. "Man, I seriously hope we do _not_ hafta work with HIM," he complains.

"True that, Bucky. He's the guy I ran into that night on the academy track, but he seemed much nicer then," I reply. Then I tug on Stenzler's coat sleeve, pulling him to a halt where one corridor intersects with another. "Wait, where are you going?" I ask in confusion.

"The locker room, where else?" he says, gesturing down the pale beige corridor. "Why?"

"Bucky, the locker room's not that way, it's this way," I say, jerking a thumb down the other corridor. "Remember, in the tour Lieutenant Moore gave us of the station yesterday, the locker room is at the end of _this_ hall, not THAT one."

"No, it's at the end of THIS one," he denies heatedly. "I remember it, because I made a mental note to myself that as we came in that back door, the locker room was off to our left…'L' for left, 'L' for locker room."

"'L' for loser, you mean," I reply. "Bucky, the locker room is THAT way," I say firmly, jerking a thumb once more in the direction I feel the locker room resides.

"Look, let's just ask someone, okay?" he says, and the two of us scan the corridors in search of someone to ask. However, the corridors are empty, devoid of all life except for the two idiots standing in the middle of the hall, looking lost. "Okay," he says after a moment, pointing to a beige-painted door marked 'Break Room'. "There's the breakroom, let's go in and ask whoever's in there where the locker room is."

"Deal," I agree, and promptly shove him towards the door. "So go ahead. Ask 'em."

"Nuh-uh," he says, balking. "You're older than me, so you do it." And he proceeds to give _me_ a healthy shove in the direction of the breakroom.

"Nope," I say, digging my heels into the pale floor. "I'm only older than you by two months, and besides, YOU'RE the one who finished up third in our class, not me." I get behind him and push at his back, putting nearly all my weight into my effort.

"All the more reason for YOU to do it, Jimbo," he offers graciously, turning into a thousand-pound cement statue, or at least that's what it seems. "You're _clearly_ the smarter one, so YOU do it."

"But you're clearly the cuter one, so YOU do it," I counter, still pushing at him.

"Damn it, Jimbo, stop it!" he snaps in irritation, whipping around to glare at me. "Look, we're adults, right?"

"I am," I tell him dryly. "But you're another matter, Bucky."

"Okay, so as adults, we should be able to decide this matter of who goes into the breakroom for directions very adult-like, right?" he continues.

"Yeah, okay, so what are you suggesting?" I ask warily.

"I'm suggesting we call on the time-honored tradition of settling difficult decisions, that of…" he begins.

"Oh, you WOULDN'T!" I gasp in shock. "Not…"

"Oh yes, Jimbo," he says, giving me a shit-eating grin. "I mean the hallowed tradition of 'rock-paper-scissors'."

"Man," I whine, very un-adultlike. "I _never_ win at this game."

"Okay," he says, putting his clenched fist out between us and with a grimace, I do the same. "On the count of three," he intones. "One-two-three." The two of us shake our fists and then reveal our throw. "Ha-HAH!" he chortles gleefully, displaying a still-clenched fist to my two-fingered gesture. "Rock beats scissors, so you hafta do it, Jimbo!"

"I demand a rematch!" I huff in irritation.

"No rematch," he orders, gesturing to the clock mounted on the wall above us. "Our time's creeping on, Jimbo. So YOU gotta go in there and ask for directions, old buddy." He is so gleeful, he looks like he's about to break into a happy dance, right in front of me.

"Oh, fine," I sigh in annoyance. "I'll do it." I go over to the door and put a palm against it, preparing to open it. I hesitate, a sudden bout of shyness sweeping over me, and I feel like I'm about to stand up in front of my high school Civics class to read an essay on what it means to be an American, all the while completely unaware that my fly is open and revealing my bright red boxer shorts to my giggling classmates.

"Go on, man," Stenzler urges at my side, nudging me in the shoulder with his hand.

"Don't rush me," I snap, then I draw in a deep breath and steel myself, swallowing hard and opening the door, stepping into the breakroom, Stenzler at my side.

And sitting there in a bright orange chair at one of the tables is the red-haired man from the parking lot, studying the page of white paper laid out in front of him atop the white formica. He glances up at our sudden entrance with a scowl, clearly annoyed that we've broken his solitude since he's the only one in the room besides us. "Yes?" he asks sharply, placing a large freckled hand over the letter in front of him in a protective gesture. "Can I help you two with something?"

"Um…we're…we're looking for the breakroom," I stammer nervously, my mouth going dry, my face heating up with embarrassment.

Stenzler slaps me at the back of the head. "You mean the _locker room,_ you nimrod," he hisses in my ear. "We're already IN the breakroom, dunderhead."

The man eyes us coldly, his lips drawn together in a frown of disgust. Even though the freckles on his face give him a boyish look, I judge him to be in his late twenties, early thirties, the dark circles under his eyes aging him even further. "Locker room's out that door and straight down the end of the hall on your right," he says in a clipped tone, gesturing to the door on the other side of the breakroom with a brisk jerk of his head.

"Okay, thanks!" I chirp brightly, taking another deep breath and starting to wend my way across the seemingly vast and empty breakroom, Stenzler in tow. In my progress across the room, I accidentally bump an orange chair, sending it sliding with a screeching noise into one of the tables. "Uh…sorry," I offer apologetically to the man for further disturbing him.

He just sighs and rolls his eyes at my ineptness and klutziness, shaking his head with dismay as he watches our progress across the room. "Hey," he calls gruffly as I reach the other door and prepare to open it.

"Yeah?" I stop, looking over my shoulder at him, wondering if perhaps he's going to apologize himself for his curt and clearly rude manner.

"You two DO know which way's left and which way's right, don'tcha?" He smirks then, a little thin-lipped twist of his mouth.

"Of course," I scoff with irritated indignation. "Whaddaya think we are, idiots?"

He studies me for a second, his eyes taking a quick inventory of me, then the smirk widens ever-so-slightly. "I dunno, you tell _me_ , kid. You're the two who can't find the locker room," he says, and then he starts chuckling with somewhat malicious amusement, shaking his head once more.

"Oh, I SO do not wanna have him as a T.O.," I mutter to Stenzler as I shove open the breakroom door with a huff.

"Or even a partner," Stenzler whispers back as we enter the corridor once more. "I bet he's a real jackass to work with. Probably all the other cops hate him."

"Hey, who did Lieutenant Moore say were gonna be the training officers on this shift?" I ask. "Jerry Walters was one of the names, what was the other?"

"I think it was Mallory or Mallard…" Bucky scratches his head, then he snaps his fingers. "No, it was Malloy. Pete Malloy."

I rub my chin in thought. "That's the name of the guy I met on the track, I think. But he didn't tell me he was a training officer or anything."

Bucky claps a hand on my shoulder, grinning widely at me. "C'mon, Jimbo, let's forget about it and go get into our uniforms. There's no sense in worrying about it 'cuz I have a feeling it's gonna be a great night for us." Shoving his hands into his pockets, he starts down the hallway, whistling happily to himself.

"Hey Bucky!" I call to him, trying hard not to laugh.

"Yeah, Jimbo?" he asks, casting a glance of curiosity over his shoulder at me as he saunters down the hall.

"Locker room's THIS way, you dolt," I say, pointing in the direction of the door at the end of the hall marked 'locker room'. Then I start down the corridor, with Stenzler hurrying behind me to catch up.

My spirits lift and begin to soar as I realize with delight that I'm about to do what I've only been able to _dream_ of doing for the last year and I can't wait to see what my very first shift has in store for me. Maybe I'll catch a car thief or even a murderer right off the bat. But whatever happens, I have a feeling that Bucky's right, it's gonna be a GREAT night! At least I hope it is...

_Because tonight's the night that I finally embark upon my career as a full-fledged police officer for the city of Los Angeles, putting on the uniform and the badge for the very first time._


End file.
